Here's Looking at You, Kid
by Bbe-with-the-Power
Summary: Literally "Casablanca" with Harry Potter. Because someone had to do it. Post-DH, AU. HarryxHermione. More drama than fluff; be warned. Thanks much for reading!
1. Chapter 1

My newest story: _Here's Looking at You, Kid_. This one's gonna be chapter story! Heads up, when I get busy, I usually don't have time to write, so chapters can be few and far between. But don't be discouraged! That's part of the reason why they're so long. I promise that I know where this is going and that I will eventually finish it (this is why I didn't want to post anything until I had at least completed two chapters). Please read and review. Since this is a chapter story and not a oneshot like pretty much everything else I've written, I most likely will answer reviews promptly (hopefully).

Oh, and like it says in the summary, it literally is _Casablanca_ but with Harry Potter. Though I will make a point of saying that it's different from the movie in various ways (I'm not giving it away, sorry). Which means that I have to add this:

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own _Harry Potter_ or any of its subsequent works, nor do I own _Casablanca_. I'm not making any money off of this, I swear. So please, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Press, Scholastic Books, Warner Bros., MGM, and anyone else involved: DON'T SUE ME! I don't have any money, so taking legal action against me will benefit no one.

* * *

Years had passed since Harry Potter had been called "The Boy Who Lived," or "The Man Who Won." No. Now, he was just Harry who ran Harry's Café du Sorcier in Bonifacio, Corsica. His fame wasn't as well known here as it was back in Britain for sure, but there was the odd customer who seemed to recognize him every now and again. Of course, the ones that recognized him never brought it to his attention; that'd be too embarrassing if it wasn't true.

At Harry's, every sort was welcome, as long as he wasn't underage and didn't start a scuffle. Some came for the drinks, some for the music, and others for the winnings in the back room's gambling hall. He'd seen many walk through his door: wizards and muggles alike, many of the former were refugees, trying to leave their home countries for one reason or another.

Despite the array of customers, Harry never did seem to find a face reminiscent of his Hogwarts days. Of course, he never did tell anyone where he was off to after he defeated Voldemort. He meant to travel the world, become an Auror, get married, and start a family. For a while, it seemed that he was on that track, only for him to wind up here and open up Harry's.

He'd seen all sorts, but it seemed that no one really saw him. He was a sort of enigmatic character; he'd be at the bar or in a booth or wandering around downstairs most nights, but no one could affirm that he was Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived and the nightclub's owner. There were some that suspected such things, but no one really knew for sure.

Not that he really minded people not recognizing him, but after a while, it became a lonely existence. The only real friends he had in Bonifacio were his employees and the Chief of Police. He'd made acquaintances around town—it'd be bad business if he didn't—but he really lacked something, something he hadn't felt in years and still scared him half to death. It wasn't Voldemort or the fame of his name or even Quidditch. It was…something else.

One thing was for sure, though, and that was the resurgence of a new threat in the wizarding world. Yet this time, Harry was absolute in his resolve to not join the fight this time. He'd been through one war, and his parents through another. All they ever seemed to do was bring death to those that did not deserve it.

This new enemy wasn't as new to the rest of the world as it was to Harry specifically. It was a sort of collection of individuals internationally that had taken to Voldemort's principles, his global connections. They preyed upon the muggleborns, squibs, "blood-traitors," and the muggles themselves, determined for the rise of the purebloods. In their eyes, Voldemort was something like a martyr.

Sure one could argue that it was just a continuation of a job that had chosen Harry long before his birth, but he was done with it. He'd seen enough for one lifetime and would rather not get involved again. Plus, this organization, which had taken root under one Fetije Mërzitaab of Albania, did not have a singular hatred for Harry like Voldemort did, so he was relatively safe. As long as he didn't raise any suspicions in his little hideaway nightclub, no one would have any reason to call him out. And though he had a bias against patrons of his club that happened to be under Mërzitaab's banner, albeit suppressed, they were well-paying customers and rarely started fights. After all, Bonifacio was a place for vacationers and refugees, not at all a place for wars; it was neutral ground by any government.

The problem, however, was in transportation. Due to the uneasiness and threat of an international war, many wizarding governments disabled their transportation branches, including the Floo networks, portkeys, and even apparition. Brooms, magic carpets, and muggle transportation were the only ways to traverse the world now. Unfortunately, this left many witches and wizards stuck in corners of the globe like Bonifacio, waiting for formal identification papers and permissions from their governments to travel. Some, by luck, wealth, or influence may have been lucky to escape this paradise of a prison, but many others were just stuck waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

Tonight, just like any other night, Harry descended from his flat above the club to join the frenzy. And as always, he wore a three-piece suit of black and white with a black bowtie and black Oxfords to seal the deal. No one usually noticed him; they were all too busy with their own booze, smoke, and money.

He saw a few of the regulars in their unofficial designated spots as he crossed the joint to the bar. At the front door, he noticed his bouncer Jimmy keeping one of the underage girls out; night after night, a few of them came to the club with the hopes of one day entering the liveliest place this side of the Mediterranean. Jimmy was a tall, hefty man with biceps the size of a Quaffle and a love for wearing fedoras. Even though he was a muggle, he sure was handy to have in a fight, not to mention that his stature and muscles alone intimidated even the most skilled wizards.

Sitting at the bar provided Harry with much of the same commentary he had heard for the past two years:

Two wizards sitting at a table, discussing their situation: "I'll never get out of this hole!"

A woman trying to pawn off a diamond ring to a seedy-looking man with a grimace spread across his face: "I'm sorry, madam, but diamonds here don't hold as much value as they would in say, Copenhagen. They're a dime a dozen here and worth little more than spilt wine."

A vivacious and very drunk woman trying to woo one of Harry's oldest regulars: "Come on, darling, take me out for a spin on the dance floor!"

When Emil, Harry's resident bartender, came over to where his boss was sitting, he took out a tumbler and poured him a minimal amount of Firewhiskey, not even needing to take Harry's order. Emil was a Spanish wizard that had come to Corsica to escape from his overbearing family. Eventually, he wound up in Bonifacio with gambling debts so large, several gangs wanted his head. And by sheer dumb luck or the grace of God, he had found Harry just in time, who was gracious enough to give him a job and arrange with the gangs to give Emil more time to pay off his debts. Tonight, he owed less than two hundred galleons.

"Emil, how well have we been doing tonight?" Harry asked.

"Very well, boss. We've made about hundred galleons so far on my end, and even more in Francs." Emil then bent closer to Harry and whispered almost conspiratorially, "Though I suggest you inspect the back room. From what I've heard from several patrons, we might lose half of tonight's earnings from roulette alone."

"Thank you, Emil." Harry knocked back the rest of his Firewhiskey and sauntered towards his gambling hall.

He then spotted his portly and bespectacled head waiter, Johann, briskly entering the back room and just barely caught the exchange between him and one of the women surrounding the roulette table:

"Waiter?" she called.

"Ja, Madame?" Johann answered.

"Would you be a doll and ask if Harry would join my girlfriends and me for a round of bourbon?"

"I am very sorry," he stated in a thick German accent, "but Herr Harry does not drink with customers. I have never seen him do that, never."

"Well, isn't that a shame, girls," the woman said to her surrounding friends.

Harry couldn't resist, "You know," he said to the woman as he walked up behind her, "I don't think anyone's ever seen this 'Harry.' I mean, have you? Do you know what he looks like?"

She pouted for a bit as she thought. "No, come to think of it, I haven't. But he's got to exist, hasn't he? Someone's got to own this place, right?"

"Yes, but whoever owns it might not even be named 'Harry.' The owner, whoever he or she is, perhaps just likes the name."

"Now that isn't right! All the staff here talks about him like he's their real boss! That's got to count for proof."

"Maybe, but he might also turn out to be a recluse, like one of those Jay Gatsby types. That would certainly explain why he never comes down to drink." _This is fun_ , Harry thought. He hadn't beat around the bush with a customer in a few months and he'd decided that had been far too long.

Thinking for a moment, the woman tentatively asked, "You don't know him, do you?"

Harry sniggered internally before replying, "I think I may have met him once when the establishment was new. From what I can remember, he's a bit of a tosser; way too high and mighty to check in on his own pub now and again."

Just then, Johann, laden with tray and all, came over to him and said, "Herr, you're needed at the front. Frauline Valerie wishes to speak with you."

As Harry left, he could just see the look of realization spreading across the woman's face. _Well, that'll keep the legends going_ , he thought with a smile.

Valerie was the receptionist and book keeper, not to mention a very beautiful Frenchwoman. She managed the payroll and finance's for the club. She also worked with Jimmy in granting entrance to the esteemed pub. She was the brains, Jimmy was the muscle, but they still answered to Harry.

"So, what seems to be the problem, angel?" Harry asked as he approached her station.

She pointed at Jimmy, who was currently holding back an angry Slavic man. One glance at his approach of entry told Harry that he was a muggle.

Jimmy, catching sight of Harry, raised his eyebrows, as if to ask what he should do with the struggling man at the door. All Harry had to do was shake his head before Jimmy said, "I'm sorry, sir, but this is a private room."

Outraged, the Slav demanded entrance, "How dare you offend me! I've traveled across the globe and have been accepted into all sorts of establishments! And none so low as this…this saloon!"

Suddenly, a small and familiar Corsican tried to wheedle his way into the club. Though initially blocked by the Slav, he managed to squeeze through.

"Hey!" the Slav shouted, "What's the big idea, huh? Why does he get to come in?"

Nervously, the small Corsican man turned toward Harry. "Oh, hello, Harry," he said with a mix of false cheer and nervousness. "Lovely to see you, but I've got some business to attend to."

Putting a hand on the small man's shoulder, Harry stopped him from going any further. "Dieb, if you're conducting business in my pub, I think you'd better consult me first. What do you say, Jimmy?"

He turned his face toward his large bodyguard, who still blocked the Slav from entering. "Oh, most definitely, boss." With that, he gave the angry man a slight push and began to close the front door.

"You'll regret this! I'll inform the chief of police just what's going on in here."

"And what is going on in here," Harry inquired with mild interest, attention still focused on Dieb.

"Gambling!" the Slav said as if he had struck a gold mine.

Harry merely laughed. "You do that, but tell him to stay away from the cards: he'll do much better at roulette instead." And with that, the Slav stormed away in a rage. "Now, Dieb," he said to the small man as he lead him towards a booth, "what sort of business are you thinking about conducting in my club?"

"Now, now, Harry! The way you just dealt with that man was extraordinary! I might've thought you've been doing this your whole life," Dieb said in an attempt to stall from the club owner.

"What makes you thinks I haven't?" Harry asked coldly as he pushed Dieb into a booth.

"Oh, nothing. But when you first came to Bonifacio, I thought—"

"—You thought what?" Harry interrupted.

"What right do I have to think? What right do any of us have to think, what with this war about to start?" Dieb added nervously.

Dieb was one of those slippery folk one hopes never to have to deal with, due to the annoyances they cause. He dealt in shady business and had a silver tongue of charm, if not for his nervous manner. _He's much more of a Mundungus Fletcher, if you ask me_ , Harry thought. All Harry knew about him was that he had connections everywhere and was one of the few that knew that he owned the club. He had the potential to be dangerous but often came across as harmless. Dieb, however, was also a wizard and served as a great source of news concerning the world, and thus was welcome in Harry's bar as long as Harry could benefit from it, money or information.

"Why did you come here tonight?" Harry asked, feeling quite tired just talking to this man.

"You know about those murders the other day, on the boat from Livorno to the Porto Vecchio, yes?"

Harry eyed him suspiciously, not liking where this conversation was going. "What about them?"

At that moment, one of the waiters passed by, only for Dieb to wave him over. After being handed a drink, he asked Harry, "Will you have a drink with me, please?"

"No."

"I forgot: you never drink with your customers." Sadly, he asked Harry, "You despise me, don't you?"

"I probably would if I devoted any thought to you at all," he said coolly.

"It's because you don't trust me, isn't it. I know you; you have strict definitions for what people should or shouldn't be, but then you do nothing about them. You don't approve of Mërzitaab's banner, but you still accept their money and let them in here. You don't like my trading business, but as long as I keep you informed, you let me sell my wares in your own bar. If you care so much, why don't you put an end to it or refuse service to the Death Eaters?"

Harry frowned. "You forget, Dieb: I'm neutral in all these conflicts. If it doesn't affect me directly, it's not my problem."

"I've heard stories about you, before you came to Bonifacio. They all described you as some self-righteous—"

Harry interrupted him. "We aren't here to talk about me. What is it you plan on selling in my club tonight?"

"Ah, yes!" Dieb exclaimed as if he had forgotten. "Those two couriers on the way to the Porto Vecchio were carrying letters of transit signed by the Italian Ministry. I just happened to come into contact with them, if you know what I'm saying."

Harry raised an eyebrow, not sure if Dieb implied that he killed the two couriers or if he interacted with more corrupt officials to get the letters off their hands.

"You know," Dieb said as he finished off the rest of his liquor, "I'm going to make a lot of money tonight and by tomorrow, I'll already be on the next airplane out of here." He sighed, "It's been so difficult to travel without apparition and the Floo networks. How do you think muggles stand having to wait for hours to get to a destination? It's so much of a bother."

Harry frowned again, "But how is, say an airplane, faster than traveling by broom or magic carpet?" looking around to see if anyone was watching them.

Incensed, Dieb quickly changed the subject. "That does not matter. What does matter is the fact that tonight I will sell the spare letter for such a high price, I might be richer than you. And speaking of which, despite all of my friends here in Bonifacio, I would be honored if you took care of these for me," he said while trying to inconspicuously hand Harry the letters of transit. "Seeing as you don't care much for me, you're the only one I can trust to hold on to these for me. Please take them."

"For how long? I don't want them here overnight."

"Oh, certainly not that long; just an hour or two, maybe," Dieb said as he handed Harry the letters and got up from the booth. "Thank you. You're such a great friend. I hope you're more impressed with me now."

Harry scoffed.

"Now, if you don't mind, Harry, I'll be sharing my good fortune with your roulette table." He started in the direction of the gambling hall.

"Hold on," Harry ordered as the small, slippery man turned around. "I suppose you're right. Couriers from the Italian Ministry? I am a little more impressed with you."

Then, Harry too stood up and vacated the table. Slowly, he sauntered over to where his resident piano player, Mik, was playing a lively riff from his rendition of "Summer Wind." Mik was from Albania and was trusted by Harry above all others, despite the little-known fact that he was a Squib. But where his magical development ought to have been cultured, his musical talents flourished.

Whilst in France, Harry had met Mik through a wizarding performance troupe he had happened to see. Harry noted the brilliance and talent of the piano player before the show had even reached its halfway mark. Afterwards, Harry made a point of visiting this virtuoso and learned that he was here to earn some cash in order to leave his family, all of whom were ashamed of his being a Squib. He then offered Mik enough money to pay off his debts and board an ocean liner, knowing full well the need to escape a mistreating family. However, only weeks after Harry had established his nightclub after their departures from France, Mik had wandered in and asked Harry if he needed a piano player.

Mik was young, only a few years older than Harry and had a broad face with an even broader smile. Ever joyful, his long fingers glided across the piano's ivory keys to his lively rendition of "Let's Face the Music and Dance" while several patrons danced one the wood paneled floor and others sang along. As Mik crooned along to his own tune, Harry slid up to the piano to lean against it, looking around at the drinkers, the dancers, the conversationalists. Then, as the spotlight on his chief entertainer turned to focus on the orchestra, Harry quickly slipped Dieb's letters under the keyboard's cover.

Stepping away after giving a slight nod to Mik, Harry ventured over to the bar, still listening to best jazz in the Mediterranean. He threw back a shot of Firewhiskey when a woman in blue silks and feathers came into his peripheral vision.

Sitting down at the closest barstool, Harry distinctly heard her call to Emil, "One highball, _ma cher_. On the rocks." Harry knew that voice. Inés.

Inés Sańassu owned Harry's main competition: the French Fox. Though the pair were business competitors, they had a good friendship and often laughed over incidents at their respective pubs. Inés was twenty years Harry's senior and a strict woman with a penchant for fashion. She had emigrated from France to Bonifacio to use her sales skills and knowledge of the latest trends to build the most successful bar in Corsica, all before Harry's Café du Sorcier, of course. She refused to take flack from anyone and commanded a lot of respect in the city; she also had no idea that the magical world existed because she was, in fact, a muggle.

"Hello Harry, _ma cher_ ," she purred as the Boy Who Lived himself turned to face her.

"It's not that I don't appreciate you buying liquor from me, Inés, but why are you here?"

"For the same reasons as always, _chéri_ , I want to buy you out."

Harry laughed as he set down his own shot. "You know that it's not for sale."

"But you haven't even heard my offer," she pouted.

"I'm not selling the Café du Sorcier for any price. Besides, if I did sell it, I'd have no place to live."

"Oh, come off it, _chéri_ ; you know I'd still let you live here. I'd even give you free drinks one night a week."

"Only one? Hardly seems worth it if you ask me."

"Well then, how about for Mik?"

"I'm not in the business of selling other human beings. I sell liquor, chances, and a good time. You of all people should know that, as I've slowly been snatching your business away for the past two years."

"Exactly! That's why I want to buy you out!"

"Not a chance! If I didn't have to worry about making a living, I'd still keep the bar just to torment you," he said with a grin.

"Oh, but _ma cher_ , let us ask Mik if he would really like to work for me," she said excitedly.

Harry snorted before saying, "You're very welcome to ask him, but I can assure you that his answer will be 'no.'"

With that, the two of them vacated their places at the bar to journey over to the piano bench, where Mik sat mopping his face with a handkerchief. Looking from the one to the other, Mik raised an eyebrow as he said, "I've got a bad feeling about this, boss."

"Mik, Madame Sańassu here would like you to work at the French Fox. How about it?"

"I'm just fine here, boss." Harry's mouth quirked upward.

"She'll double your salary; probably even give you more frequent breaks too."

"Even with extra breaks, I doubt I'll even have time to spend that salary. God knows I certainly don't while working here."

"Thanks very much, Mik." Noticing the satisfied look upon Inés's face, Harry offered to show her out before she turned him down.

Then, turning back to the bar, Harry noticed Emil fawning over a young, pretty woman in a short skirt and heels as tall as a Bowtruckle. He quickly decided he ought to check in on his bartender, in case he decided to get sloppy on the job.

He could only catch snippets of their conversation amidst all the noise around them. "All right, _mi querida_ , for you, I'll shut up. Because I love you. Oh no." Emil swiftly took out a small towel and began wiping the bar with it. "Ah! Hello, boss!" he started, trying to act surprised.

The girl turned to look at him, her exasperation turning into downright despair.

"How's our stock looking for the rest of the night, Emil?" Harry asked without sparing a glance toward the girl.

"We'll be fine for another two hours at the rate we're going, but I sure will be glad for the restock tomorrow."

Then, the girl, looking like she could no longer stand the conflict within her, stood up and cried to Harry, "Where were you last night?"

Finally seeming to give her some thought, he turned to look her over and noticed her drunken state. "That's far too long ago to remember."

"Then will I see you tonight?" she asked desperately.

He seemed to consider her for a moment. "Sorry, love, but I don't make plans that far ahead."

Then she turned towards Emil, the hand holding her glass extended toward him. "Then give me another."

"Oh, I don't think that would be wise, Emil. She's had enough."

"Don't listen to him, darling. Fill it up."

Clearly torn, Emil replied, " _Mi querida_ , I love you, but he pays me."

Suddenly, she turned on Harry. "No! I can't stand you trying to—"

"—Emil, call a cab," Harry interrupted.

"Yes, boss."

Harry then took the girl's arm and led her toward one of the side exits out of his pub. "Come on. We're going to get your coat."

Outraged, she tried to wrench her arm lose, but found herself fighting a losing battle against the former Quidditch player. "Get your hands off me!" she cried out.

Harry looked at her intensely. "Don't make a scene in here. You're going home. And I'd advise that next time, you don't have so much to drink."

In front of them, Harry could see Emil flagging down a cab. He then waved to them.

Angrily, refusing to go down without a fight, she said to Harry, "Who do you think you are? You can't push me around! It's the 90s! What a fool I was to fall for you."

Ignoring her, Harry turned to Emil. "Hey, I think you better go with her. Just make sure she doesn't do anything stupid. Oh, and you better let her know that it's 2003."

A smile broke out on the bartender's face. "Yes boss!"

"But you had better come back," Harry said with a warning look in his eyes.

"Yes boss," Emil said as his face fell.

Strolling away from them, Harry glanced at the small airport not too far from his bar. The gleaming lights of the tower flashed every few seconds. He sighed as he turned away, moving towards the terrace seating he had only recently added. Bonifacio's Chief of Police sat leaning against the back of his chair, trying to catch a glimpse of the inside entertainment.

"Hello, Harry."

"Hello, Hugo."

"Take a seat," the Police Chief said as he pulled out a chair for Harry to sit on.

Politely, Harry sat down. He and Hugo Lefevre weren't exactly friends, but they didn't cross much either. They were more like allies or business partners. Lefevre first marched into the Café du Sorcier in its third week of operation. Bonifacio had some odd law that prohibited gambling. Of course, being part gambling hall, the Café du Sorcier was due for a little inspection, but that night, Monsieur Lefevre had such good luck at the cards, he decided to forget all about that silly law. He came back the next night, and the next, and the next, and the next, but he still didn't close Harry's.

"You ought to be so lucky," Lefevre scowled. "You, throwing away women like that. Some of us actually have to try to catch one." Harry said nothing, but Lefevre could see a small upward quirk grace the bar owner's face. "Maybe I'll get around to calling that girl. I'll catch her on the rebound."

At this, Harry nearly had to stifle a laugh. "When it comes to women, Hugo, you're a true capitalist."

They sat back, listening to Mik and the rest of the orchestra shred a new tune. Soon, they heard the buzz of an airplane approach. Harry looked up to see an airplane fly clear over his head and move further and further away, becoming a small dot amidst the stars. The planes that usually flew in to Bonifacio weren't large, commercial things that could hold two hundred people. They were smaller, usually feeling crammed when more than five people boarded and with propellers instead of large engines.

Lefevre nodded towards it. "That's the plane to Marseille. Wouldn't you like to be on it?"

"Why should I? What's there in Marseille?"

Lefevre looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. "A way to leave this Godforsaken island. You know that. Of course," he said contemplatively, "it's no broomstick. Oh, how I miss being able to feel the wind rushing through my hair. How I miss being able to hit a Bludger at my brother!" Monsieur Lefevre was a wizard and not too many people knew it. Harry was one of that few.

"Well, don't blame me for not being able to play Quidditch. It's the laws you enforce that keep you from doing so."

Lefevre gave an exasperated sigh. "Just because I'm the Chief of Police in Bonifacio—"

"—I meant your French Ministry of Magic," Harry interrupted.

"Ah, well, that, yes. Hmm…." Lefevre paused for a moment before saying, "You know, I've always wondered why you left Britain. I mean, the Boy Who Lived, the man who defeated He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named all of a sudden disappears off the face of the Earth. Funny enough that he should wind up in Bonifacio three years after he saved the entire wizarding world." He looked at Harry intensely. "You were great! You could've been anything! You could've been the greatest Auror the world has ever seen. You could've joined any Quidditch team with a Seeker record like yours. You could've taught Defense Against the Dark Arts at any wizarding school in the world, but you became a lonely bar owner in the middle of the Mediterranean, hiding out from everyone and everything that used to matter to you."

Annoyance crept onto Harry's face. "Don't pretend to know me or my life, Hugo. Besides," he said as he quickly changed tones, "I did become something: the most successful pub owner in Corsica. And I certainly am not lonely and I have not been hiding out."

"But why, of all places, in Bonifacio? You could've gone anywhere in the world and you chose this little dump of an island!"

Harry seemed to consider him for a moment. "My health. I came for my health."

Lefevre scoffed. "I still think you ought to have gone to America at the very least. You'd have had to deal with less of this European conflict. Mërzitaab's armies, my word! You don't know how dreadfully exhausting it is to cower before one dark wizard only to have another spring up in his place. Or perhaps you do," he said as he suspiciously eyed Harry.

Just then, Johann trotted out of the side exit toward Harry. "Herr Harry, there are some men who won two hundred thousand francs and Frauline Valerie would like some money."

"Excuse me," Harry said as he left Lefevre with Johann.

"I am so sorry, Herr. I would take care of it, but you know…" the headwaiter trailed off.

"Of course," Harry said reassuringly. "Don't worry about it." _Just another night in Bonifacio_ , said a voice in Harry's head. _And, boy, does it feel long already_.


	2. Chapter 2

Please let me know in the reviews if there's some sort of a discrepancy and I'll fix it as soon as possible. Thanks much!

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own _Harry Potter_ or any of its subsequent works, nor do I own _Casablanca_. I also don't own the rights to the songs "Amado Mio" (1946) or "As Time Goes By" (1931). I'm not making any money off of this, I swear. So please, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Press, Scholastic Books, Warner Bros., MGM, and anyone else involved: DON'T SUE ME! I don't have any money, so taking any legal action against me will benefit no one.

* * *

At Harry's Café du Sorcier, there's always something happening, from drunken fights between lovers, to big winnings on the roulette table. But despite all the activity in the famous bar, Harry Potter, the owner himself, was often overlooked or the subject of double takes. After Voldemort's defeat at his hands, Harry Potter had gone into hiding in Bonifacio, Corsica. And though his bar served all sorts—wizards, muggles, and the followers of a dark new regime—Harry himself had no taste for the murderers, the cheaters, or the manipulators.

Monsieur Hugo Lefevre, Chief of Police in Bonifacio, had been completely correct: the most successful pub owner in the Mediterranean was dreadfully lonely and he most certainly was hiding. Of course, Harry would never admit this to anyone, but here, at least, he didn't have to endure the stares, the constant whispering behind his back, or any of the attention that came from being Harry Potter. That is what Monsieur Lefevre did not understand. True, Harry could have been anything he wanted, but what if this _was_ what he wanted?

After leaving Lefevre at his table on the terrace, Harry followed his headwaiter Johann back inside to settle some issue with Valerie, the receptionist and payroll manager.

"What's up, angel?" he asked her.

"Sir, I don't have enough money to back these two gentlemen," she said as she pointed to the two mustached men before her. "They are saying that they are owed two hundred thousand francs. I needed you to retrieve some from the vault."

"Of course, Valerie, my dear." And so, Harry went up the stairs to his personal apartment to the safe he stored in the closet. After entering the electronic code, he heard a couple of clicks before the heavy, steel door opened. Quickly grabbing the francs, Harry shut the safe and went back downstairs to Valerie's desk.

He had only set down the envelope full of French notes on her desk when he felt a tapping on his right shoulder. He turned to see Lefevre. "Can I help you?"

"Well, I thought you ought to know that I plan to make an arrest in you bar tonight. It should be really exciting," the Police Chief told him mischievously.

"Another one?" Harry asked, clearly annoyed. "You know, this is bad for business."

"Ah, but this is no ordinary arrest. This time, it's a murderer," Lefevre said excitedly.

Harry's eyes betrayed him as he looked toward the gambling hall. Unfortunately, Lefevre caught the glance.

"I'm advising you not to warn him. He won't be able to escape."

Matter-of-factly, Harry told the Police Chief, "That's fine then. I don't stick my neck out for anyone."

Lefevre clapped the bar's namesake on the back. "Good man, good policy," he said as he steered Harry toward the stairs. "Come, let us speak in your office."

Harry scoffed, not interested enough to debate the argumentative power in his own establishment.

"You know, Harry, I certainly could've made the arrest at the Footloose Fox, but out of consideration for you and your customers, I've decided to stage it here. Should be great entertainment for them."

"Our entertainment's enough. You know, if I didn't have a gambling hall or I didn't sell booze, I think I'd still have half of my customers coming in to listen to Mik."

The pair crossed the hall from Harry's apartment to his office. He opened the door, turned on the light, and drew a chair for the Police Chief. He then closed the door so that no suspicious ears would overhear their conversation.

"Thank you," Lefevre said as he sat. "But, you know, I think you're right about Mik. Anyways, I should tell you that we're going to have an important guest tonight, and I doubt you'll like him very much. But, who knows? His name's Trottel, one of Mërzitaab's highest lieutenants and an ambassador sent to the French Ministry. A wise policy: discussing fear tactics before actually using them."

"Mërzitaab just doesn't have enough people to mount a full-scale attack. Besides, since this is a continent-wide war, she'll have to draw up quite a bit of followers. Sending—what's his name? Trottel?—will just be a bluff. She flies her own colors in the name of Voldemort, so of course governments will cower." Upon hearing the name of the darkest wizard since Grindelwald, Lefevre flinched. Harry scowled.

"No matter my politics, or yours," he added, eyeing at Harry, "I'm under orders to be diplomatic to our guest. So this arrest ought to demonstrate the efficiency of my administration. Now, I don't like the situation either, but we've all got to do our part to get by. You of all people should know that."

"Just because I know it doesn't mean that I have to like it. But why's he come to Bonifacio? Even though Corsica is a French territory, I doubt he came here just to witness your efficiency."

"Perhaps not," he said, crestfallen.

Looking from a stack of receipts on the desk before him to his ally, Harry said, "You look like you've got something to share, Hugo. Why don't you come out with it?"

"You're quite observant, Harry. As a matter of fact, I wanted to give you some advice."

"Yeah?" he asked, trying to sound disinterested.

"I know that hundreds of letters of transit have come in and out of your bar. I also know that you have never sold one. That is why I still allow you to remain open."

"Please," Harry scoffed as if he had heard a funny joke. "You wouldn't close the Café du Sorcier. Who else would let you win at roulette?"

"Well, yes, that's also true, but there's been talk that a man's arriving in Bonifacio on his way to central Europe. One of those freedom fighters, you know. He fought in the Second Wizarding War in Britain and he's due to rally forces against the Death Eaters. You'd probably know him. Anyways, he's supposed to pay a great deal to anyone with a letter of transit."

"What's his name?" Harry asked suspiciously.

Lefevre sat for a moment, a puzzled expression gracing his face. Finally, emerging from his confused stupor, he said, "You know, I'm really not sure."

"Sure," Harry said with frank disbelief.

"Look, it's my job to see that he doesn't leave Bonifacio. Got it? He stays here."

"I'll bet you one hundred seventy thousand Galleons he'll get away."

Lefevre scoffed. "You don't have that much money."

"I sure do. Besides, it's only a little more than I paid out tonight and I'd like very much to earn it back."

"Well, you know how I love to gamble. Fine. I'll take you on. Still, I say he needs a letter of transit, or should I say two."

"And why should you say that?" Harry asked curiously.

"Because he's supposedly traveling with a lady."

"Who'd you say this was again?"

"I told you that I don't really know. He's probably one of your friends."

"Doesn't matter. He'll take one."

"I doubt it. If he didn't leave her behind in Prague or in Budapest, he certainly wouldn't leave her in Bonifacio."

"Maybe he's not quite as romantic as you are."

"Well, this discussion is pointless. There is no letter of transit for him."

"Let me just ask you something," Harry started, "What makes you think I'd be so willing to help this guy?"

"Because, dear Harry, no matter what sort of a hardened war hero you may have become, you'll always be loyal to those who fight the Death Eaters. You'll always be a member of the Order of the Phoenix at heart and you'll always be a sentimentalist."

Harry let out a chuckle. "A sentimentalist? Is that what you think of me?"

"Go on, laugh. But you forget that I know who you are. Defeated He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named six times, led a campaign throughout Britain to track down any remaining Death Eaters, and you still overcharge any Death Eater that walks through your doors. Not to mention the fact that they tend to always have horrible odds at your tables."

"You know that I didn't actually lead that campaign, right? I merely suggested it. After the War, I went traveling for two years to go see the world. Besides, in the two things I actually did do, I found the outcomes to be very profitable. I got to keep my life and I earned extra money."

"Come off it."

"Well, it seems you're determined to keep that freedom fighter here."

"I have my orders," Lefevre said resignedly.

Suddenly there was an urgent knock on the door. "Come in," Harry told the knock's owner.

A young boy nervously struggled with the door handle for a moment before jiggling it open. He had to be no older than seventeen, what with his boyish face and the thin wisps of a mustache desperately trying to take root above his upper lip.

"Sir," he said urgently to Lefevre, ignoring Harry in the process, "Monsieur Trottel is here."

Lefevre immediately sprang to his feet and straightened his uniform. "Excuse me, Harry, but we'll have to continue this conversation some other time." With that, he hurried out the door, his aide trailing behind him.

Shaking his head, Harry bent over a few of the papers on his desk in an effort to sort them, but he couldn't concentrate. He was much too focused on what Lefevre said about tonight's scheduled events. He couldn't fathom who this resistance leader could be or why any of this should matter at all. He had done his part; this was no longer his war to fight. So why did he still care? _You know it's because of her_ , said a voice in his head.

Harry sighed. He supposed there really was nothing else for it. Giving up on trying to settle the receipts and order forms for the moment, Harry stood from his desk and turned off the office's lights before closing the office door. He casually walked down the stairs into the nightclub's main room, desperately flattening his hair over his scar and removing his glasses just in case he ran into this Mr. Trottel.

He watched as Lefevre waved Johann over. Seated across from Bonifacio's Chief of Police was an older gentleman that could have passed for Barty Crouch Sr.'s brother. His neatly-trimmed hair was combed back, his thin line of a mustache stretched from one corner of his mouth to the other, and he was dressed impeccably, as if he were about to hold job interviews. He wore all black and on his face was plastered an expression of expectation and demand. Clearly, Harry could see, Mërzitaab only sent the most suave-looking in her ranks to deal with delegations.

Harry leaned against the railing for a bit, eyes searching the crowd. He spotted Dieb walking towards Valerie, handfuls of chips in his hand, while being trailed by two stern-looking men. Harry noticed they both tried to conceal their wands in their sleeves but kept them pointed at the small, slippery little man. _They must be on Lefevre's payroll_ , Harry thought. Indeed they were. Monsieur Lefevre didn't discriminate between wizards and muggles on his police squads, but he preferred to leave more crafty wizards like Dieb to magical folk.

Dieb dropped his chips on Valerie's desk, exchanging them for francs. He pocketed half of it and turned to face the front door, seemingly preparing to exit. However, the francs still in his hand were suddenly thrown into the air.

Chaos ensued. From all sides, patrons came streaming to collect the rain of money. The two wizards trailing him were shoved aside by the greedy crowd; one was even knocked to the floor. They pulled out their guns; they couldn't openly fire spells at him while surrounded by muggles. As this occurred, Dieb ran straight for Harry.

A manic look in his eyes, Dieb grabbed Harry's jacket by its lapels. "Harry! Harry, you've got to help me!"

Expressionless, Harry merely said, "Don't be a fool. You have no chance for trying to get away."

"Please, Harry! Hide me, cover me! Do something! For God's sake, Harry, help me! Do something!"

Harry just stood there as the wizards caught up to the small escapee and dragged him off. He struggled against them, but his physical size made his attempts futile.

"Harry! Harry!" he called out desperately.

In all the commotion with the scramble for Dieb's discarded francs, very few guests had noticed the slippery little man being dragged off. Those who did, however, looked as if they were preparing to leave.

Harry knew what he had to do as he walked fairly quickly towards Mik. He whispered something to Mik, still keeping his eyes on those about ready to depart. Harry in turn walked away, distancing himself from the piano as quickly as possible.

Then, Mik stood from his piano and announced to the whole of the nightclub, whoever paid attention, "On behalf of the entire management here at Harry's, I'd like to apologize for the disturbance folks, but it's all over now and everything's fine. If you'll just sit down and enjoy yourselves." In turn, he sat down and started pinging on the keys in a very complex variation of "Come Fly with Me." His fingers bounced from one side of the keyboard to the other, constantly in motion.

Harry happened to walk by Lefevre's table when he heard a call. "Oh, Harry? This is Monsieur Trottel; he works with the esteemed Mademoiselle Fetije Mërzitaab and is a diplomat to the French Ministry from her organization," the Police Chief said as Harry halted before the booth.

"How do you do, Mr. Harry?" Trottel said in a near-perfect English accent. He had a twinge to his voice that lingered on some of his vowels, adding a hard edge to his speech.

"Oh, how do you do?" Harry asked back, feigning boredom.

"Please join us, Mr. Harry," Trottel said curtly. He held out a hand toward an empty seat.

"We are very honored tonight, Harry," Lefevre said as Harry sat down. "Monsieur Trottel here is one of the reasons why the international Death Eaters hold such a strong sway across Europe today."

Looking as if he were refusing to point, Trottel eyed Harry suspiciously, then asked him, "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? All unofficial business, of course," he said, completely ignoring Lefevre's comment.

"You're certainly welcome to. Mind you, I don't really fancy answering personal questions, so let's try to keep it short. I've got a nightclub to run."

Trottel didn't expect this response, nor did he seem to like it very much. "What's your full name?"

"Harry Tiberius Evans." Harry had been using this alias since he left Britain nearly five years ago. It ensured that he didn't attract so much unwanted attention. However, Hugo Lefevre knew the truth, so to keep him from questioning this change in identity, Harry kicked the Police Chief's shin under the table.

"Evans, hmm?" Trottel mumbled disbelievingly, taking a notepad out of his left breast pocket and writing the name down. He looked back up at Harry. "By the sound of your English, I'd say that you are of British nationality, am I correct?"

Barely looking around at his company, Harry had begun picking at the tablecloth. "I'm a drunkard if anything," he said nonchalantly.

Lefevre let out a chuckle, "Well, that makes Harry a citizen of the world!"

Glancing up at his inquisitor, Harry answered, "I was born in Surrey, if that helps you at all." Completely untrue of course. Harry had been born in Godric's Hollow; he lived at Number Four, Privet Drive in Surrey from the night his parents died until he turned seventeen. But Major Trottel didn't need to know that.

Trottel wrote this down in his notepad too before changing the subject. "I understand you came here from Paris only two years ago."

"True enough."

"Two years ago, Mistress Fetije ordered quite a number of our ranks into Paris. Tell me, Harry, are you one of those people who cannot imagine the Death Eaters in their beloved Paris?"

"It's not particularly my beloved Paris," he answered in a bored fashion.

"Can you imagine us in America?"

"When you get there, ask me."

Lefevre snorted before he downed his Scotch.

"How about in London?"

"As much as I'd like to advise you to avoid certain sections of London, you and I both know that, as I am English, I've already seen Death Eaters in London. It's where you originated."

"You and I both know that there will be an international wizarding war. Our reach has already begun," Trottel said matter-of-factly. He then resumed his interrogating air, "Who do you think will win?"

Looking Trottel straight in the eyes, Harry answered him, "I haven't the slightest idea."

Lefevre, sensing trouble, cut in to the conversation. "Harry is completely neutral about everything. And that takes in the field of women, too."

"I hardly doubt you were always so neutral," Trottel said with the expression of a foul smell beneath his nose. He flipped through his notepad to the first few pages. "We've been trying to keep tabs on you, Monsieur Evans, but with all the secrecy you impose upon your identity, I admit that we've been forced to rely on rumours and half-truths. For example, though we've thoroughly decided that you're half-blood and confirmed that you'd come to Bonifacio from Paris, we could never agree on whether or not you were English before tonight."

"Glad I could be of some help to you after all."

"We also happen to know why you left Paris," Trottel added smugly.

 _He's bluffing_ , Harry thought.

"Do you now? And why would that be?"

"It was a woman." Harry looked at the Major sourly, distrust and offense written all over his face. "Don't worry," Trottel added, noting Harry's expression. "We're not going to broadcast it."

Harry reached out and grabbed the notepad from Trottel's hand with his Seeker reflexes. Skimming through it, he looked up at the Major, "Are my eyes really brown? I've always been told they're green."

Trottel snatched the notepad back from Harry before depositing it back in his left-breast pocket. "Thank you, Mr. Evans, for your illuminating details. The real point of our discussion, however, is the arrival of a certain enemy of ours and your ability to help us keep him here."

Harry glanced over at Lefevre. "My interest in the freedom of a freedom fighter is purely sporting. Hugo's already told you: I'm a neutral party in your war."

"In this case, you have no sympathy for the fox, do you?"

"I understand the perspective of the hound, too."

Trottel sighed in frustration as if remembering something painful. "This particular troublemaker has cost us many men; he has led guerilla attacks throughout Eastern Europe and spreads messages throughout the Wizarding Wireless under the codename Kingshelm. We apprehended him in Paris and he was still able to broadcast from our prison."

Lefevre chose just this moment to interrupt and remind everyone at the table that he was still present. "Of course, one must admit that he has great courage."

"He is a force to be reckoned with and he must be stopped. Three times he has slipped through our fingers and I intend to not let it happen again."

Harry got up from his seat. "Well, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, this conversation has begun to bore me. I'll leave you to your politics and I'll continue running my pub."

"Good evening, Mr. Evans." Major Trottel shook Harry's hand before allowing the nightclub owner to disappear into the frenzy of gamblers and drinkers.

Walking toward the gambling den, Harry could just make out Lefevre's words, "You see, Major, you have nothing to worry about Harry."

On the other side of the club, a couple walked through the front door under the bouncer's scrutiny. The man was very tall and freckly, his red hair neatly combed for the occasion of stepping into such a venue as this. The woman beside him was very beautiful with her sleek brown curls that ended just below her shoulders and she wore a simple white ensemble with half-sleeves and a light-red carnation in place of a broach. She was, in fact, so beautiful that people began to stare at the pair as they passed by.

Suddenly, the headwaiter approached them from amongst the tables teeming with people. "May I help you, sir?" he asked with his heavy German accent.

The man turned to look at his companion. "I believe we reserved a table under 'Ron Weasley.'"

The headwaiter nodded, "Yes, Herr Weasley. Right this way." He led them past a number of tables, of which many of the occupants couldn't help but stare at the couple. As they passed the piano, the woman glanced at the player, who was jolting out his rendition of Celestina Warbeck's "You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me."

The piano player kept his gaze steadily on his instrument in concentration. Then, as the party of two passed, he too stole a glance in her direction.

"Frau," the headwaiter said as he pulls out a seat for the woman. "Herr," he said as he did the same for the man. "My name is Johann and I will be taking care of you tonight. May I start you off with some champagne?"

Looking around, Ron Weasley told him off-handedly, "An elderflower wine and a Knotgrass Mead."

"As you wish, Herr Weasley." With that, Johann left to attend to some other guests.

Ron turned to the woman as he lowered his voice, "I don't see anyone here who matches Dieb's description."

"Ron, I don't think we ought to stay here."

Ron raised his eyebrows. "Why not? If he leave here too soon, we'll attract even more attention. Maybe he's in some other part of the bar…."

Seemingly out of nowhere, another man approached the table. He was older than the couple by about twenty years and was beginning to bald. He spoke with some sort of an Eastern European accent, "Excuse me, but you look like a couple on their way to America."

"I'm sorry?" Ron asked, taken aback.

The man removed a ring from his finger and held it for their view. "I think that you'll find a market there for this. I, however, must sell it to you at a great sacrifice."

"I'm sorry, but we aren't headed to America and we don't quite fancy your ring."

"But I must insist, for the lady." He lifted up the peridot stone to reveal the Deathly Hallows symbol.

Ron and his companion exchanged a look. "In that case, we're very interested."

The man sat down between them. "Good. I'm Lorik, Albanian, and at your service, sir."

The woman turned to see the Chief of Police approach their table from behind her traveling partner.

"Ron," she starts in warning.

Catching her drift, he lowered his voice, "I'll meet you at the bar in a few minutes." Then, returning to his normal volume, "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think we'll buy the ring. Good luck with your wares." Lorik scuttled off.

"Monsieur Weasley, is it not?" the Chief of Police extended a hand toward the redhead who had stood to welcome the newcomer.

"Yes."

"I am Captain Lefevre, Bonifacio's Chief of Police."

"Yes. What do you want?"

"Merely to welcome you to our lovely little city. I must tell you that it has been quite a while since we've had so distinguished a guest as you, Monsieur."

"Thank you, even if your French administration hasn't been as welcoming of late," Ron said skeptically. "May I present Hermione Granger?"

Hermione stood and offered her hand to Lefevre, who took it in his own and gently placed a kiss on it. "I was informed that you were the most beautiful woman to ever visit Bonifacio. May I say that it was a great understatement."

Hermione blushed, and taking her hand back, replied reservedly, "You're too kind."

"I suppose we'll ask you to join us," Ron said.

"If you insist." The three of them sat down. Lefevre then raised a hand and called out, "Oh Marcel!" A waiter appeared by the table in seconds flat. "Please, a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, and put it on my bill."

"Yes, of course, sir," said Marcel the waiter.

"No, Captain, please," Hermione began.

"No. Please, it is a little game we play. They put it on the bill, I tear the bill up. It is incredibly convenient."

Hermione then glanced over in the piano player's direction. "Captain, who is that playing the piano? I feel as if I've seen him before."

"Mik?"

"Yes."

"Oh, he came with Harry from France. Hired three weeks into the bar's establishment, I believe."

"Harry? Who's Harry?"

Lefevre smiled at her. "Mademoiselle, you are in Harry's and Harry is—"

"—Is what?" Hermione interrupted.

"Well, he's the kind of a man that, if I were a woman and I," at this, he tapped his own chest, "were not around, I should be in love with Harry. But what a fool I am, talking to a beautiful woman about another man."

Just behind him, another man of military pedigree approached the table.

"Ah! Excuse me, this is Major Trottel, Mademoiselle Fetije Mërzitaab's right-hand diplomat. This is Monsieur Weasley and Mademoiselle Granger," Lefevre continued with introductions.

Trottel smiled and bowed curtly. "How do you do? I have long looked forward to the pleasure of meeting you both."

Again, Ron and Hermione exchanged a look, this time of confusion. They didn't recognize him nor did they invite him to take a seat.

"Excuse me if you find my manners lacking, but we don't exactly get on well with your sort," Ron said coolly.

Insulted, Trottel exclaimed, "My sort? And what sort are you implying, exactly?"

Ron stood, towering over the unwanted guest. "We don't like Death Eaters and I'm sure you know that, considering that you've just given us quite a special welcome."

Scowling, Trottel's voice hardened, "Then I suppose that your special welcome ought to include a discussion of your presence here in Bonifacio. Tomorrow at ten in the Captain's office, with the Mademoiselle."

Ron looked over at Lefevre, hoping he could make a more peaceful settlement. "Captain Lefevre, since Hermione and I are under your authority, is it your order that we come to your office?"

With a smile as false as the thought of Draco Malfoy in Gryffindor, Lefevre answered, "I think I prefer the word 'request.' It's so much more pleasant, don't you think?"

"Fine," Ron growled.

Lefevre and Trottel bowed to the couple and each addressed Hermione before departing for another corner of the nightclub.

Ron still stood from his seat, his liquor all but forgotten. "Where's Harry-bloody-Potter when you need him, eh? Harry'd know what to do." He sighed in exasperation. "I really wish he'd never left, you know, Hermione? He'd have a plan to get us off this island or something. You said you saw him last in Paris, what, two years ago? What happened to him?"

"I don't know, Ron," Hermione said, avoiding his gaze. "But I do know that we've been on our own without him before and that we've survived through worse scrapes than this."

"Yeah," he conceded. "I guess."

She smiled back at him, but still her eyes were glazed with trouble.

Ron looked across the club, his gaze landing on Lorik at the bar. A turn of the head gave him the perfect view of Lefevre and Trottel whispering together conspiratorially.

"I'll be back soon, but I'm gonna try and find out what Lorik knows."

"Be careful, then," Hermione wished.

As Ron left her alone at the table, a Spanish singer struck up a tune on her guitar and began to sing:

 _Amado mio  
Love me forever  
And let forever  
Begin tonight_

Elderflower wine and Ogden's Old before her, Hermione sipped the more fruity concoction as she observed the patrons around her. Many were dressed in their fine silks and pearls, others, with their hair slicked back and their coats completely lint-free. Though the noise and colors began to blur together after awhile and the occasional drunken shout pierced the air, everyone and everything had an air of class that so often seems to be missing from the modern world.

 _Amado mio  
When we're together  
I'm in a dream world  
Of sweet delight_

Over the noisy din, the Spanish singer could still be heard crooning her song. Another look around the room led Hermione's eyes to land upon Mik. He was watching her nervously. Hermione glanced over at Ron, now at the bar and casually talking with Lorik over something not so casual. Perhaps they were discussing what had happened to Dieb, the man who was supposed to arrange transportation for them to Italy. Or maybe they were setting up another meeting for another time and another place with other Order of the Phoenix members.

In the past two years, Ron and Hermione had been traveling across Europe amidst rumors of a new threat to the wizarding world: Fetije Mërzitaab. Inspired by Voldemort's ideology and subsequent "martyrdom," Mërzitaab had been attempting to begin an international war across the wizarding world; more Magic is Might. They headlined a new campaign to protect those that Mërzitaab and her people targeted. One of their duties was to set up a new, international Order of the Phoenix.

As the Spanish singer ended her song, Hermione waved over the nearest waiter. "Will you ask the piano player to join me, please?"

" _Qui_ , Mademoiselle."

Mik wheeled over his piano to Hermione, who sat alone at her table, all her company having deserted her.

"Hello, Mik," she addressed him with a graceful smile. She was the very picture of elegance, concealing every bit of anxiety and fear that she really felt.

Mik, on the other hand, seemed as nervous as a man on death row. "Hello, Miss Hermione. I never expected to see you again."

"Yes, it's been awhile, hasn't it? Two years," she commented as she rose her wine glass to her lips.

"A lot of water under the bridge, I hope," he replied, sweat beading his brow.

"You wouldn't mind playing some of the old songs, would you?"

"Of course, Miss Hermione." He started off with the slow, gentle opening of "Green Eyes." He waited for her to say something, anything.

"Where's Harry?" she asked after a few measures of the music.

Perhaps she shouldn't have said just _anything_. "I don't know; he hasn't been here all night," he replied in what he hoped sounded like a satisfactory answer. Though, he did look awfully uncomfortable.

"Well, do you know when he'll be back?" she questioned with muted curiosity.

"Uh, he won't be coming back tonight. He's gone home, I think."

"Does he always go home so early?" She glanced down at her wristwatch. "Why, it's only eleven-thirty!"

"Oh, he never…well…" Mik struggled to find something to say. Rivulets streamed down his forehead. Changing the subject as tactfully as possible, he started, "He's got a girl up at the French Fox, you know? Really pretty…but, uh, not as pretty as you, Miss Hermione," he finished lamely.

Her smile grew wider. The red of her lipstick against the white of her teeth contrasted like a rose upon fresh snow. It contained the youth of a new feeling and the wisdom of recalling an old one.

"You used to be a much better liar, Mik."

Suddenly stopping his song, Mik turned to face her. "Leave him alone, Miss Hermione. You're bad luck to him."

Deciding she'd had enough teasing the poor piano player, she asked something else of him. "Play it once, Mik, for old time's sake."

"I don't know what you mean, Miss Hermione."

"Play it Mik," she gently urged. "Play 'As Time Goes By.'"

"Oh, I can't remember it." He was evading again. "I'm a little rusty on it you know." He seemed even more frightened than before.

"Fine, I'll hum it for you."

As the sweet notes rolled off her tongue, Mik began playing the intro softly against his better judgment.

Smiling even more sweetly, she requested the equivalent of his death sentence. "Sing it, Mik."

Sighing with resignation and only looking at her every other measure, he started to sing:

 _You must remember this  
A kiss is just a kiss  
A sigh is just a sigh  
The fundamental things apply  
As time goes by_

Still nursing her wine, tears began to cloud her vision.

Then, the doors to the gambling den swing open. There, in his white jacket and black bowtie tuxedo, storms Harry. The pain written on his face could have distracted anyone from the lightning bolt scar that shone from beneath his unruly hair. After all his attempts at flattening it, it refused to remain in place.

 _And when two lovers woo  
They both say I love you  
On that you can rely  
No matter what the future brings  
As time goes by_

In less than ten long strides, he was beside the piano. "Mik, I thought I told you to never play that—"

Then he saw her. "Shocked" couldn't describe it, nor could "astonished" or "stunned." She, too, seemed a bit unnerved at the man before her.

Sensing the tension, Mik quickly stood up, placed his bench on the piano's top, and wheeled it away.

Lefevre and Ron approach the table, not even paying attention to what had been going on.

"Well, you were asking about Harry and here he is, though he doesn't often advertise himself. Mademoiselle, may I present—"

"—Hello, Hermione."

"Hello, Harry."


	3. Chapter 3

I know it's only been three days since I posted the first (and second) chapters, but I felt really bad about leaving you with a shitty cliffhanger and no romance for the ship. But since there should be enough of that in this chapter, I don't feel as guilty about leaving for a few weeks before the next chapter is posted.

I've also been considering changing the title to "Everybody Comes to Harry's" in reference to the title of the play from which the 1942 movie _Casablanca_ originated. Please let me know what you think in the reviews and thanks for reading!

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own _Harry Potter_ or any of its subsequent works, nor do I own _Casablanca_. Any references to other works of fiction are just that and gold stars to anyone who notices them. I'm not making any money off of this, I swear. So please, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Press, Scholastic Books, Warner Bros., MGM, and anyone else involved: DON'T SUE ME! I don't have any money, so taking legal action against me will benefit no one.

* * *

"— _Hello, Hermione."_

" _Hello, Harry."_

"Oh, so you've already met Harry, Mademoiselle?"

He couldn't believe that she was here, of all places. What was she doing _here_? How had she found him?

Lefevre's voice shattered the moment, interrupting his reverie, "Well then, perhaps you also—"

"—Harry!" Ron had taken notice of the man who had once been his best friend. "Merlin's beard! What are you doing here? How come Hermione and I haven't heard from you in ages?" In his excitement, Ron began asking too many questions for anyone to process, but neither Harry nor Hermione was paying attention.

Harry involuntarily took a step back, realization dawning over him. Frowning, he asked the Chief of Police, "So, you don't know who our illustrious guests are, do you, Hugo?"

Lefevre shrugged, seemingly unconcerned with the impact this revelation would have on the nightclub owner. "I told you the names slipped my mind. What is a name anyway? What does it matter?"

After a sidelong glare, Harry focused his attention on his new friends. "Well, how've you been, mate?" He clapped Ron on the back. "Been hearing a lot about you recently, even if not by name." Another glare at the Chief of Police.

Hermione, still seated, looked from one man to the next. "Won't you two join us?" she addressed Harry and Lefevre. "For a drink, I mean." Ron had already sat opposite her.

Taking a seat, Lefevre answered with a slight chuckle, "Oh, no, Harry would never—"

Turning to face her once again, Harry pulled out a chair and sat himself down. "Thanks, I think I will."

"Well! I must admit that I'm quite surprised. Harry never drinks with customers, you know," he pointed out to Hermione. "Marcel!" he called out to the nearest waiter. He looked at the table and spotted Ron and Hermione's leftover glasses and a half-empty bottle of Ogden's Old. "Take the empty ones away, please, and we'd like a fresh bottle of Ogden's."

" _Qui_ , Monsieur," the waiter replied and bustled off.

"You know, Harry, when you left after the Final Battle without saying a word, everyone sort of assumed you were on some sort of secretive revenge quest or something," Ron informed him. "Actually," he said, wrinkling his nose in thought, "Hermione and I thought you'd gone traveling the world." Hermione looked down at the tablecloth.

"We all thought you'd be back in a year at the most," Ron continued. "But I've got to say that as confused as I am about your choice of living, the place isn't bad. It's very interesting, really. To be honest with you, I've never really seen anything like it."

"Yeah, well, couldn't have anything too flashy or the muggles would get suspicious," Harry pointed out.

Marcel returned with a fresh bottle of Firewhiskey and new glasses.

"I really ought to congratulate you, you know," Harry said to the redhead.

"And why's that?"

"Yours and Hermione's work." Shotglass in hand, Harry looked around at the other three. "I propose a toast. To the Order!"

"To the—" Lefevre started, but quickly realized no one else would drink to it.

"No," Hermione said while looking Harry straight in the eye. "To Harry!"

Glasses raised, Ron and Lefevre joined in, "To Harry!"

The four downed their shots, though Harry didn't seem exactly comfortable with the sentiment.

Pouring himself another shot, Lefevre amiably commented, "You know, I can't get over you two. She was asking about you earlier, Harry, in a way that made me extremely jealous."

"Well, I had no idea it'd be you. We haven't seen you in two years. Let's see," Hermione began thoughtfully, "the last time we met—"

"—It was in _Le Cheval Ailé_."

"How nice. You remembered," she said with genuine affection. Then her expression fell. "But, that was the day the Death Eaters invaded Paris."

"I couldn't forget that day in a million years," Harry mused bitterly.

"No," she agreed.

Harry cold gaze bore into hers. "I remember every detail: the abundant champagne, the kids riding their broomsticks in the back alley, and you. Your hair used to be longer then, and bushier. I like what you've done with it since," he added. "But that day, you were so different; the Death Eaters were in their black garb as usual, but you wore blue."

A hint of color appeared in Hermione's cheeks. _He's never complimented me in public like that before_ , she thought. Then she smiled, "Yes, well, I've put that dress away. When our job's done and the Death Eaters have been defeated, I'll wear it again."

Lefevre leaned forward, whiskey in hand, "Harry, since your friends have arrived, I think you've become something slightly akin to human." He winked at his friend, then took Hermione's hand in his empty one. "Thank you, Mademoiselle," he said, giving her his most charming smile.

All the while, Ron's ears grew pink and jealousy crept into his features.

"Don't worry about him, Ron," Harry advised. "He's just a harmless flirt."

Lefevre drew back his hand. "Yes, well, perhaps I am and…uh…" he tried to find something to say then he glanced down at his wristwatch. "It's very late and for the safety of our guests and residents, magical and muggle alike, we've established a curfew here in Bonifacio. I'm sure you can all imagine how embarrassing it would be for the Chief of Police to be found out and about after others and have to fine himself."

Ron signaled the waiter for the tab.

"Where are you lot staying?" Harry piped up.

"Down the street at the Tricky Pixie," Ron answered as he stood from his seat.

"I would've recommended you to Mama's. They're a muggle inn, but they've got better rates."

The waiter arrived at the table, "Your check, sir."

"It's my party," Harry said as he reached for the bill.

Lefevre's eyes widened. "That's another precedent gone! This has certainly been a very interesting evening. Perhaps I'll get to drink with you again tomorrow night." He left in the direction of the front door as Emil's shouts for the last call rang throughout the bar.

Ron clasped Harry's shoulder as he, too, took a stand. "You didn't have to do that, mate."

"I know," he replied casually. "I wanted to and I haven't seen you two for years. It's my treat. You can pay for tomorrow night," he compromised.

"It's a deal. Then you can tell us what you've really been up to in the last five years."

"Say goodnight to Mik for me," Hermione asked rising from her chair.

"I will."

"No one can play 'As Time Goes By' like Mik," she said with a small, sad smile.

"He hasn't played it for a very long time," Harry admitted.

"Goodnight," the Trio each said to each other.

Harry sat back down at the vacated table, watching his old best friends leave. A part of him really missed them and wished he could've spent the rest of the night deep in conversation, trying to find out about their adventures over the last five years. The other part of him, the one dominated by cynicism and doubt, thought it was just as well. For how could he bear to be around the two people he loved the most, the two people who hurt him the most?

Around him, the other patrons finished their drinks, cashed in their chips. By now the orchestra had stopped playing and Mik was nowhere to be seen. It seemed that the club was even noisier than usual, despite the absence of the trombones or piano. It was fine, however, as the swirl of colors and exiting feet drowned out any other thoughts. For every trace of Hermione's red carnation, there were green heels _clack-claking_ their way across the tiled atrium. And any detail of her dazzling smile had been replaced with the drunken laughter of strangers he'd known for thirty seconds or two years.

Alas, as all things must end, so did his distraction. He sat so lost in thought that it wasn't until Marcel came to clear the table that Harry moved. He sat at the bar, motionless, as the lights were turned out around him and his staff left for their own homes, locking the doors behind them. If Jimmy or Valerie called out a, "Goodnight, boss!" on the way out, Harry didn't hear it.

It was about two in the morning and the only lights that could be seen emanated from Harry's upstairs apartment and the constantly revolving beacon from the airport spilling in from the nearest window. Sometime while Valerie was locking up, Harry had taken a bottle of Campbell's Finest Old Whiskey from behind the bar.

With his right hand, he poured a shot into the glass held by his left. In one gulp, he downed the burning liquid. He knew that the alcohol wouldn't solve all his problems, but damn if he didn't think it'd help him forget if only for a moment! All he could see were her eyes, gentle as a doe's; his nose, as close to the bottle of whiskey as it was, could only breathe in her scent. It was she—not the alcohol—that was so intoxicating.

Harry, so lost in his thoughts, didn't even notice when Mik came to stand behind him.

"Boss," said the Albanian pianist, but Harry refused to respond. "Boss," he tried again.

Ignoring his friend, Harry poured himself a little more whiskey, sipping it this time.

"Harry!"

"What?"

"Aren't you going to bed?"

"Not right now," the club owner answered grimly.

"Aren't you going to bed in the near future?" Mik asked lightly.

"No."

"Ever?"

"No."

"In that case, I'm not sleepy either," he declared. He rolled the piano up beside the bar.

"Have a drink with me."

"No."

"Then don't have a drink." Perhaps the alcohol was finally starting to work.

"I've an idea," Mik proposed, "Why don't we leave the bar for the rest of the night?"

"I can't. I'm waiting for someone."

"C'mon, Harry, let's get out of here. There's nothing here for you but trouble waiting to happen."

Harry looked at his friend as he took another swig. "No, sir. She's coming back; I know it."

Mik tried again in earnest, "We'll go out and take the car. I'll take you fishing or we can go out for a swim. I know! We'll ride our brooms across the island and back until she's gone! I'll go upstairs and get your Firebolt! Then I'll—"

"Shut up and go home, would you? Just leave me alone."

"No, I'm going to stay right here and damn you if you want to drink yourself into oblivion!" he declared stubbornly. He sat down at the piano, playing a soft improvisation on "One for My Baby (One More for the Road)."

"I guess that's the way of the world, isn't it? They grab Dieb—whom they've probably killed already—and then _she_ walks in. What a lousy night! Mik?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think any of it mattered?"

"What do you mean?"

"I defeated one dark lord, now there's another ready to take his place. I thought I was helping people, saving lives, and here we are, right where I started. And now, knowing that I've done nothing about it, I feel absolutely guilty, like a kid that hasn't done his homework."

He pounded his right fist on the wooden surface before him, his left still holding his glass. He buried his head in his arms, as if hiding. _No_ , he thought, _I'm stronger than this, aren't I?_ Doubt cluttered his thoughts. He raised his head once more.

"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."

He set down his glass, finally feeling the headache, though if it was from the alcohol or thoughts of her, he wasn't sure. He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands.

The light from the beacon outside still flashed its way across the room. Harry looked over at Mik, just realizing that he'd been playing the piano the entire time. "What are you playing?"

"'One for My Baby,'" Mik told him.

"Stop it," he scolded. "You know what I want to hear."

"No I don't," Mik denied.

"If you could play it for her, you can play it for me."

"I don't think that's such a good idea…"

"I think it's a terrific idea. If she can stand it, so can I. Play it!"

"Yes, boss," Mik conceded. Mid-song, he switched tunes against his better judgment.

As Mik played the opening notes of "As Time Goes By," Harry imagined Paris as he had known it two years ago. He'd spent the previous two-and-a-half years traveling the world. He'd taken a cruise down the Congo River, seen the Taj Mahal in India, experienced a Siberian winter, even visited the Japanese wizarding school, Mahoutokoro. He sailed from one Polynesian island to the next, explored the Amazon, and ventured into the States. But of everything he'd seen on his travels, nothing held a flame to Paris.

His first day in the City of Love and it was raining. Not just a drizzle, not a heavy downpour, but just enough to make everything feel new and fresh. He'd taken a taxi past the _Bois de Boulogne_ to get to his hotel. The city was beautiful, more so than the skyline of New York City or the bamboo forests of China; it had an unrivaled elegance that toyed with his loneliness.

He had asked the concierge the name of the best bar, only to be directed to _Le Cheval Ailé_. It was there that he'd first seen her blue railene dress. At first, he'd only recognized her because of her hair: length to her mid-back and bushy beneath the styled curls. There were no tears in her eyes, nor did they look red or puffy, but Harry knew she'd been crying. He always knew.

To say that Hermione was surprised to see him was a bit of an understatement and after the pleasantries, when he'd asked her why she'd been crying, all she'd say was, "No questions, Harry."

And so, they'd carried on as if taking a vacation from reality. He took her driving around the city in a small convertible he rented. She'd snuggle close to him, her head on his shoulder, and he'd put his free arm around her to hold her close. They would sometimes take boat tours down the Seine and lean on the railing while popping Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. They never talked about the War, who they'd lost, or what Hermione did when Harry had been traveling the world. They were news-free except for what they heard in _Le Cheval Ailé_ , one of their only connections to the wizarding world. Paris was their escape and they were content in keeping it that way.

Never before had he been so happy; not at Hogwarts, not even while playing Quidditch. After the first month, he started to notice how he always looked his best when he knew he was meeting up with her and how she always brought a smile to his face.

One day, they'd been walking through the _Bois de Boulogne_ and it had begun to rain. It was a near-perfect recreation of Harry's first day in Paris. Only this time, he wasn't alone. His hand found hers and they ran to take shelter beneath one of the trees, laughing all the way.

He looked into her eyes, one of her hands still grasped in his. "I have to make a confession."

"I thought we said—"

"It's nothing like that. Hermione, I love you, really love you." And then she kissed him.

It didn't matter that they were soaking wet or that her hair was the frizziest it'd been in a long time. The only important thing was how good it felt to hold her in his arms, to hear lilting refrains of "As Time Goes By" from the nearest street musician, to breathe in the scent of damp chestnut trees, and the sweet, sweet pull of her lips.

Soon after, she told him that she loved him in return.

A few days later found them in Harry's apartment. She stood by the window, arranging his flowers—Casablanca lilies—and wearing a sleeveless, knee-length black dress. She heard a pop as Harry opened a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses.

"C'mon, Hermione," he pleaded. "Tell me why you came to Paris; it's been more than a month. What's everyone been up to back home?"

She sat next to him on the couch. Taking her glass from his extended hand, she shook her head sadly. "We said 'no questions' and it's much too nice being here in the moment with you."

"Can't say I like the answer, but I'll drink to that." He raised his glass in a toast, "Here's looking at you, kid."

They clinked glasses. It was always the same toast and she always reacted in the same fashion: she'd giggle, playfully swat him on the arm, and say, "But Harry, I'm older than you."

They went out dancing at night sometimes. They would go to a posh club and dance cheek-to-cheek; she would wear her pearls and he would don his best shoes. Sometimes, the club would be noisy with flashing lights and the smell of alcohol would permeate the air. On those nights, there was nothing so sweet in their dancing as a twirl under the arm or gentle swaying. Though surrounded on all sides by other dancers and a DJ or band, it was just the two of them. Just Harry and just Hermione.

She didn't enjoy flying and it was illegal under the International Statute of Secrecy to fly around muggle areas, anyways, so some mornings, he'd take a moped around to her place. He'd ring the callbox and she'd bounce outside less than a minute later. They would ride across the city just to pass the Eiffel Tower and he would always stop to buy her a large bouquet of red carnations from the street vendor closest to the south leg.

"You're too special for roses," he'd always say as they drove away. "Every guy buys a girl roses; they're too common."

She'd always laugh and kiss his cheek as she held onto him and her bouquet.

A few months had passed and they once more relaxed in Harry's Parisian apartment. They were each wearing jumpers and jeans from back home. Hermione switched on the radio and flipped a Galleon as she made her way over to the couch. The sun shone brightly through the gossamer curtains. She balanced the golden coin on her index finger and thumb then flipped it over to Harry, who caught it lazily before it could hit him in the face.

"Your reflexes are still as good as ever," she noted.

"Thanks," he said, turning the coin over in his head.

She sat down beside him. "A Galleon for your thoughts?"

"If I'm not mistaking, there was a time when you would've priced them at a penny, but that must've been a long time ago."

"For you, I'm willing to be overcharged." She leaned her head on his shoulder, looking up into his eyes.

"I was just wondering…"

"What?"

"How I got to be so lucky. How you happened to be one of the first faces I came across in a foreign city after two-and-a-half years of traveling alone."

"Like why you've been the only man in my life for quite a while?"

"I suppose that's one way to put it."

"That's easy," she pulled her head off his shoulder. "There was one once, but he's dead now."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He genuinely was. "Whatever happened to you and Ron?" Before she could answer, he said, "But I forgot that we said 'no questions.' I'm sorry for asking."

"Well," she leaned closer to him so that their lips nearly touched, "only one answer can take care of all our questions." She kissed him, draping her arms over his shoulders. He responded in kind by pulling her closer and running a hand through her trademark bushy hair. They had many conversations that ended like this throughout their time in Paris, but no two were exactly the same.

They had already stayed in the City of Love for six months when they felt the first stirrings of danger. They were seated at a sidewalk café, sipping their tea, when a haggard-looking man rushed up to them and handed them a newspaper. It was _Le Voyant Parisien_ , the wizarding newspaper for Paris. Translated, the headline read: DEATH EATERS CLOSE IN ON ZÜRICH.

"Wait!" Harry called after the man, but he'd already disappeared down the street. He turned to Hermione, "How'd he know we're wizards?"

"Hmm?" she'd been skimming the article; her French was much better than Harry's. Then her eyes widened in shock. "Harry, they're only about five days away by foot. I'm scared; they could discover us here and we have no idea how to contact the French Ministry for further information or protection."

"So I guess that you want to leave, then?"

"It seems like our only option. We'd have to leave sometime in the next couple of days just to be safe. Transportation's been more difficult to come by since the French Ministry put a temporary ban on Apparition and Floo Powder. We'll have to take muggle transportation; a train perhaps," she decided.

The next day, they met up at their favorite bar, _Le Cheval Ailé_. Hermione was wearing her blue railene dress, sitting at a table. Though the muggles seemed oblivious to the imminent danger, wizards and witches raced to leave the city. It was as if someone had announced a bomb would be going off some time in the next few days and no one could really be sure when it would happen.

Harry returned from the bar with a bottle of champagne and three glasses. Beside their table was a piano player. Mik. Though it had been months since the pianist had first met the couple and since Harry had given him enough money to leave his mistreating family, he remained in Paris, glad for the couple's friendship and waiting for his debts to be paid off.

As Harry poured the champagne, Mik played "As Time Goes By."

"Alright, Louis wants us to finish this bottle before he gives us three more," he noted of the bartender. "He said he'd rather dump it into the Seine before the Death Eaters have an opportunity to drink it."

"You know," Mik said as he looked at his glass, "I think this is the first time I've ever been paid in champagne. Really makes you feel better about getting invaded, doesn't it?"

Harry wrinkled his brow, "I wouldn't exactly say that…." He looked at Hermione, her expression betraying her nerves. "Hey, it'll be alright," he comforted. He raised a glass, "Here's looking at you, kid."

Suddenly, a young French boy ran upstairs into the bar. He frantically shouted something in French.

"What's he saying?" Harry asked. Hermione had acted as translator since Harry didn't quite have the knack for languages that she did.

"He's says that the Death Eaters are almost in the city. They'll be here by tomorrow. The French Ministry is trying to hold them off at the Swiss border." She turned to Harry, smiling faintly. "With all the time we've had, it's silly to think that we've only just now fallen in love."

"It is pretty bad timing, I suppose. What was going on five years ago?"

She paused to think. "We were in our sixth year; probably in Potions class. I don't know, weren't you dating Ginny back then?"

"I suppose I was. We've been fools, Hermione, oblivious fools."

She smiled sadly as she stood and went to lean against the window frame. Harry went to stand beside her. "I suppose we have, but now I'm too much in love to care" she said.

Only a few inches taller than her, he leaned down, capturing her lips with his and engulfing her with his arms like the ocean. They kissed hungrily, desperate for the moment to last as long as possible. They broke apart at the sound of a muffled explosion in the distance.

"Was that an explosion?" Hermione asked, frightened.

"Must've been. Blasting curse, maybe? They can't be far now." Another BOOM pervaded the air. "They're getting closer every minute. You were right to suggest that we leave today." Turning his attention back to their table and picking up his glass, he said, "But drink up! We've still got three more bottles after this!"

Mik paused from his piano to take a drink. "I don't know, Harry, maybe we should all leave now. They aren't exactly looking for you, but if they do find you, I have no doubt that they'd consider it a small victory."

Hermione turned to look at him from where she leaned on the window frame. She looked sick with worry.

In an attempt to cheer her up, Harry said, "Don't worry. They know just where to find me. I left them a note telling them to 'go to hell.'" He chuckled at his own joke and noticed Hermione didn't.

"Be serious, Harry. You're in danger and you've got to leave Paris. There's no being a hero this time."

"Aw, come on, Hermione! Being the hero is what I do best," he joked light-heartedly. When her expression didn't change, he added, "Fine, but in all seriousness, _we've_ got to leave Paris."

"Er, right. Of course," she said seriously.

"The train for Marseilles leaves at five o'clock." He turned around to address Mik, "You're going with us, right?"

"Yeah, then I'm boarding the next boat to the Amalfi Coast in Italy."

"So, I'll pick you up at your apartment at four-thirty?" Harry asked Hermione.

"Uh, no, it's probably best if I just met you at the station; I've got some more things to do around the city before I leave."

Harry shrugged. "Alright, I suppose. Four-forty-five, you'll be there."

She tilted her head slightly and gave him a small, sad smile.

Then a thought struck him and his eyes lit up. "Why don't we get married in Marseilles?"

"Oh, Harry!" She couldn't look him in the eyes as she started to cry. She threw her arms around his neck and sobbed softly into his shoulder.

He rubbed slow, soft circles into her back and smoothed her hair. "What's wrong?" he asked with concern. "Is it the thought of marrying me? Because I don't think being married to me would be so horrible…"

She sniffed and pulled herself away from his shoulder. "It's not that," she assured him. "It's just that I love you so much, and I hate this invasion so much. Oh, it's a crazy world; one dark lord and now another! Anything can happen, and I'm really worried for you, Harry. If for some reason you don't get away, I mean, if…if something should keep us apart, whatever they do to you and wherever I am, I want you to know—"

Another bout of tears overwhelmed her. Harry took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. He held her again until most of her tears subsided. Then she pulled back enough just to look into his eyes.

He kissed her forehead gently and made his way to her mouth, his lips lightly brushing over her features. She opened her eyes, not realizing she had closed them.

"Kiss me, Harry," she pleaded. "Kiss me as if it were the last time." And he did. Over and over again, each more hungry than the last.

That evening, Harry arrived at the train station at four-forty-five, just as they had agreed. He wore a heavy trench coat and had turned down the brim on his fedora. It was raining—a real downpour. _So, it rains my first day in Paris and my last. How fitting_ , he thought cynically.

People were rushing all around him to board the last train out of Paris for the night. Many of them were wizards, but a great deal were muggles to who had somehow sensed an unforeseen danger. The conductor was blowing his whistle, calling out for any last-minute passengers.

Harry stood by and watched the frenzy in action, not that it really mattered to him anyway. There were only three minutes until the train left the station and he'd been checking his watch every minute since he'd arrived. It didn't matter that he was soaking wet or that he'd nearly been trampled twice. She hadn't arrived yet and that meant everything.

Then, through the heavy bustle of the crowd, Mik appeared waving his hand in the air and jostling his way closer to Harry.

"Where is she? Have you seen her?" Harry called out.

"No, I can't find her. Her apartment was vacated this afternoon and there was a note taped to the door." He pulled out a letter from under his own trench coat.

Harry grabbed it from him and hastily unfolded it. It read:

 _Dear Harry,  
I cannot go with you and I don't know the next time or if there will be a next time we meet again. Please don't ask why. I'm sorry that it had to turn out this way, but please believe that I love you. For God's sake, Harry, get on that train! Be safe and take care of Mik.  
I love you,  
Hermione_

Rain poured from the sky, smudging her neat handwriting like tears.

A loud whistle rang through the station and Mik grabbed Harry by the arm and dragged him toward the nearest carriage. "Come on, Harry. That's the last call. They're leaving!"

Harry had only enough time to grab his suitcase before he reluctantly allowed himself to be dragged to the door by Mik. As soon as they boarded, the train began to take off. All the while, he looked back, hoping against hope that she'd appear. When it sunk in that she wouldn't, that she couldn't, he crumbled the letter and tossed it at the platform, the steam of the engine billowing behind him and the rain drenching him from overhead.

Back in his own bar, in his own time, Harry knocked over a glass of whiskey as he reached for it. By this time, his eyes were bloodshot and a sheen of sweat had beaded his brow. Mik had stopped playing, finally intent on forcing Harry to go to bed.

Just then, the lock on the front door jiggled. From outside came a soft cry of "Alohomora!" Harry turned his head to see Hermione in a white summer coat and a silk scarf covering her recognizable hair. Then, she sat down next to him at the bar.

"Harry, I need to talk to you."

"Oh, good." He turned to Mik, "I told you I was waiting for someone," he called out in drunken smugness.

Mik wheeled the piano back to its resting place and waved goodnight before exiting the building.

"Have a drink with me," Harry requested.

"No, not tonight. You've had enough, anyway."

"Especially tonight," he seemed rebuffed. "Fine. Another for me, then." He poured himself another drink and knocked it back. He went to pour himself another, but Hermione placed her hand on his instead."

"Please listen to me."

He tried to look her in the eye, but she was out of focus, wavering as if she were a mirage. He took off his glasses to clean them with a corner of his shirt.

"Your glasses are fine, Harry. You're just drunk."

"Why did you come to Bonifacio? There are other places, other pubs."

"I wouldn't have come if I knew you were here. Believe me, Harry, the last thing I want to cause you is more heartache."

"Yeah, well," he slurred, "it's a bit late for that. Whatever happened to 'Harry love, we'll leave Paris someday and you'll show me the rest of the world?' What about 'It'll always just be the two of us?'"

"Please don't. I understand how you feel, but—"

"—But what? Do you really understand what that feels like? After everyone else that I've lost, the first person I really, truly love says that she loves me in return but stabs me in the back anyway." Tears formed in her eyes, but she refused to let them spill; he wouldn't notice them in his drunken state as it was. "How long was it that we had together? Do you remember?"

"I didn't count the days."

"Well I did! All one hundred and ninety-three of them. But I mostly remember the last one and what a brilliant finish it was. Picture it: a guy standing in the pouring rain on a train platform with a comical expression because he'd just been hit by something worse than a stunning spell."

"Can I tell you a story, Harry?"

"Maybe. Does it have a brilliant finish?"

"I don't know the end yet."

"Well, go on, tell it. Maybe you'll think of something as you go along. You were always the smart one," he said bitterly.

"It's about a girl who received a letter that told her she was a witch. So she left her home on the outskirts of London to attend her magical school, where she met two boys: one was very brave and noble, the other was humorous and loyal. Nevertheless, they were both incredibly fierce and protective. Everything she ever knew or ever became was inspired by them. She fell in love with the first boy, but when he didn't seem to notice her affections, the second boy consoled her and she looked to him with a feeling she supposed was love."

"Yes, that's very pretty. I heard a story once. As a matter of fact, I've heard a lot of stories; comes with the job, you see," he said as he waved a hand to indicate the club. "A lot of them went along with a tinny piano that could be heard across a crowded floor, 'Mister, I met a man once when I was a kid,' they'd always begin."

Hermione let her tears fall freely now, hurt and ire crossed her face.

"Huh," he said in his drunken state, "I guess neither of our stories had that wild finish I'd hoped for. Tell me, was I your rebound for Ron or was it the other way around? Or were there others in-between? Or are you the kind that doesn't kiss-and-tell, just shows off instead?"

Hermione knocked over her barstool as she stood and didn't bother to pick it up. She was at the door in less than five seconds, but before she left, she told him through the tears, "I could hex you, Harry Potter, but I won't. I'd be doing you a favor if I knocked you out long enough for the worst of your hangover to subside. Sometimes, you can be a real prat, did you know that?"

As she ran out the door, slamming it behind her, Harry felt his head connect with a combination of wood and arms before he blacked out.


End file.
